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  Or could it?

  Could it – if it were the boy? The child would live with guilt, she knew that, even if it were an accident.

  She was burdened with her own guilt. She couldn’t allow herself to experience joy. She didn’t deserve to be happy. She had killed her family – her mother, her father, the unborn child, the relationship with her sister that she couldn’t sustain, the closeness she couldn’t bear, didn’t deserve.

  The child would suffer whether she made him suffer or no.

  But the child must be questioned. It was her duty.

  She awoke the next morning, with that duty oppressing her.

  The boy. She would have to talk to the boy. She wasn’t looking forward to it. She had never interviewed a child before – not as a suspect. It was hard to tell who was more nervous – Jamieson or Jamie – when she sat down to question him in the comfort of the police house. She wasn’t going to endure that tent anymore.

  She sat down because he was a child.

  Of course his mother was with him. Whether that would help or hinder her, she wasn’t sure.

  “When your father was lying on the road, you were there.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you left – before or after the truck went off the road?” It was still there, in the ditch. Ben Mack had said something about hauling it out with his tractor.

  “After.”

  “So you saw the accident?”

  Jamie’s head dropped.

  “Answer, Jamie,” Rose said, her voice gentle, reassuring.

  “Yes.” Jamieson knew that from her unfinished investigation of the accident, but she’d never asked Jamie outright – just taken Ian and Annabelle at their word.

  “And?”

  “And I ran off.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I hated it.”

  “Hated it – or hated him?”

  Rose’s sharp intake of breath alerted Jamieson that she had gone too far. She knew it herself. She’d never done this before, but that was no excuse.

  “Jamie loved his father.” Rose had taken hold of one of Jamie’s hands, and was exploring his face for signs of distress.

  The mother was becoming intrusive.

  “Please – ” It was a word Jamieson rarely used in questioning. “Let the child answer for himself.”

  “I’m not a child.” Jamie aimed a stubborn look at Jamieson, then at his mother. “And I can answer for myself. I did love my father.”

  Jamieson caught hold of the word “did.”

  “Did? Do you still?”

  Rose was about to object again.

  “He’s dead,” said Jamie, his tone flat, emotionless. It tugged at Jamieson. She remembered saying the same thing, in the same way. But not the same circumstances.

  “Yes,” said Jamieson, “and that’s why I’m speaking to you, trying to find out what happened that night.”

  Footsteps. She’d seen the footsteps. Bare feet. A child’s or an adult’s. She looked down at Jamie’s feet. He’d taken his boots off. They weren’t child-size. They were the feet of small adult.

  “Did you see your father again that night?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Answer Jamie.” Rose prodded. “Did you?”

  Jamieson shot her a look.

  “I’ll do the questioning.”

  “Of course. Excuse me.”

  A decent woman, thought Jamieson. A decent child, too. But decency didn’t mean a thing when it came to murder. She must not be swayed. She must go on what the evidence told her – though there was precious little of it, and even that was confusing.

  “Did you see your father again that night?” She repeated the question to bring them back on track.

  After a moment: “Yes. Yes, I saw him.”

  “Where?”

  “In the culvert…” He was about to say more, but Jamieson – uncharacteristically – jumped in on him.

  “Why were you there?”

  “No reason. Just wandering in the woods.”

  “And then you saw him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Performing acrobatics?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he doing when you got there?” No answer. “What was he doing?” she prompted.

  “Twirling around.”

  “That’s acrobatics, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “What is it then?”

  “That’s dead. He was dead. Hanging from the tree. Twirling around. Dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That he was dead?”

  “No, that it was then that you saw him. Not before.”

  A slight pause. “Yes. After. Not before.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what.”

  “That someone might think I’d done it. Like you.” Jamie jutted his chin stubbornly at her.

  “No one’s accusing anyone of anything here. I have to get all the facts. Did you notice anything, anyone there? Anything unusual?”

  “Well, it was unusual to have my dad hanging dead from a tree.”

  Jamieson flushed, her pale skin turning pink. She remembered. She remembered what it was like to have a father – and a mother – die. Different circumstances, but both terrifying to a child.

  But Jamie was still composed enough to withhold vital information.

  He had seen someone else.

  His mother.

  He looked at her now.

  And he thought she’d seen him, too.

  Their eyes agreed to keep that knowledge from Jamieson.

  When the pair left, Jamieson sighed. This was a tough case. Those three – Rose, Jamie, and Oliver – were so busy protecting themselves and each other that it was hard to tell who did it.

  If any of them did.

  She slumped down in the armchair by the window that looked out on the road.

  She stared out at some children building a snowman in front of the Hall – a Santa Claus. One of them was fashioning a fabulous ice sculpture of a whale. Wasn’t that one of the Dewey boys? And helping him – a Fraser? She craned forward to get a better look. Weren’t all the Frasers off on some family reunion in Winterside? It couldn’t be a Fraser. It must be –

  Community policing was having its effect. On Jamieson, not on the village.

  She was becoming a bit like them.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jamieson interviewed everyone – even Lili – who had not been in the village at the time.

  The moment Lili answered the door to her sharp knocking, Jamieson knew the girl knew something. There was a certain wariness about her as if she were guarding some nugget of knowledge. She was – and it would not take much for Jamieson to have it out of her.

  “Tea?”

  Tea. Always tea. Jamieson wondered why the village didn’t float away on a sea of it. She shook her head. She drank coffee. One. In the morning.

  “Some water then? I have some lovely – ” She reached for an exotic-looking green bottle.

  Worse. What’s wrong with what comes out of the tap?

  “Please, sit.”

  Jamieson didn’t budge.

  Lili stayed standing, too, out of politeness to her guest. Jamieson towered over her. Lili was used to that. She was not just smaller than most people, she was tiny.

  “What do you know?”

  “Know?”

  “About the death of Fitz Fizpatrick.”

  “Nothing. I know nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No. Nothing.” Lili’s voice wavered almost imperceptibly. Almost. The kind of thin fissure Jami
eson could wedge into. Jamieson, an expert listener, heard the slight inconsistency. Lili knew she’d heard. She resumed control of her voice.

  “I wasn’t here.” She sounded strong, sure.

  “I know that,” said Jamieson. “But I think you know something. I think it would be wise to tell.”

  “Well, I – ” The crack reappeared and opened up.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s nothing really.”

  “Everything matters when somebody dies and we’re trying to find out why. Besides, it must be something, or you wouldn’t be trying to hide it from me.”

  “I wasn’t hiding it.”

  Jamieson pursed her lips in disbelief.

  Lili gripped the back of the chair. “Well, I suppose I was, but I don’t know that it means anything.”

  “Let me decide that.” Jamieson softened her tone slightly to soften Lili, to make her speak.

  It worked.

  “It’s Oliver…”

  Jamieson remained silent. Give her room and it will all come out.

  “I think he may dabble in the black arts.”

  Spare me.

  “I think he may be evil.”

  “Do you have evidence – or are you just speculating?”

  “I’m not sure.” Lili pulled out the chair and sat in it. Suddenly Jamieson’s height seemed a disadvantage. She towered so high above Lili that she felt a bit dizzy, as if she might fall over. She, too, sat down.

  “He had this…book.”

  “What book?”

  Lili couldn’t name it. She felt if she did it might materialize, here at this table, desecrating this house and this village. The book Oliver had sold to the church to feather his nest forever. It would be a miracle if he hadn’t been tainted by his possession of that book. He must have been. It must have come to him because he was evil, and gone from him for the same reason. And wasn’t he here searching for another book? Was it like the other one? Could there be two such books in the world?

  “I can’t explain about the book. It’s known – and his possession of it is known – by certain people in the spiritual community. Word gets around.”

  “Can possession of a book make a man evil?”

  “Oh I think so – or, at least, the evil in the book can rub off on him, and then on others.”

  “You really believe this?”

  “Yes. Look what happened to Nathan, who was in contact with him every day. Look what happened to the Fitzpatricks – he was in and out of their house all the time. I think he got rid of that book, but he brought its evil with him.”

  “Are you suggesting Oliver killed Fitz Fitzpatrick?”

  “Killed?”

  “Murdered.”

  Lili’s hands flew up to cover her mouth.

  “Oh no,” she said, after a moment. “I just think evil follows him.”

  “Or comes with him.”

  “Right.”

  Some nugget of knowledge, thought Jamieson. Useless. What I need is a confession.

  Jamieson ought to have been careful what she wished for. Although it was Hy, not she, to whom the trio confessed, one after another.

  “I did it.”

  Jamie came up behind Hy when she arrived at the house. Her back was to him. That’s why he was able to say it. She whipped around.

  He looked defiant, not confessional.

  “Did you?” She kept her tone even, but the words caught in her throat.

  He didn’t answer, not at first.

  She took a step toward him. He lowered his head.

  “But why?”

  “My father. Because of my father. Because of the way he was.”

  Hy was doing her own rounds of the people who might know something about Fitz’s death. In her case, it was not to find a guilty party. It was to find reasons to believe that none of the people she’d come to care about had anything to do with it.

  She got the opposite, starting with Jamie, who had been outside in the yard when she’d arrived at Wild Rose Cottage. Inside, Rose was sitting, staring blankly at nothing. A soup of root vegetables that Gus had given her was boiling on the stove.

  Hy didn’t even say hello.

  “Jamie told me he did it.”

  Rose went pale, paler than usual.

  “I did it.”

  She looked defiant, not confessional.

  “I thought it was an accident.”

  “I…I hoped that’s what people would think.” Her head was dropped down, she was looking at her own hands, clasped too tight in her lap.

  “That’s what people do think. So why not leave it alone?”

  “But if they think Jamie…”

  “I don’t believe anyone thinks Jamie did it. I think he’s protecting you.”

  Now Rose’s hands came up and covered her face.

  “Oh, no. I hope it’s not that.”

  “I think it is. Tell me, Rose. You can tell me. Did he do it – or did you?”

  Rose uncovered her face and looked up at Hy.

  No guilt there. Just anguish. If she was reading it right.

  She didn’t stop there very long. She marched down to Moira’s, banged on the door, and shoved past a startled Moira. She tangled up the layer of newspapers under her feet and dragged them across the floor. With them, some road sand striped Moira’s sparkling clean hardwood.

  Hy walked straight into the dining room, where she knew she’d find Oliver. She’d seen him from outside through the window.

  She didn’t say hello, but dove right in.

  “Both Jamie and Rose say they did it. I think they’re protecting each other. I don’t believe either of them did it.”

  “No, because I did it.”

  “You did it? Are you sure?

  “Absolutely. It wasn’t either of them.”

  The look on his face like Rose and Jamie – defiant, not confessional.

  “Maybe not. Maybe not you, either. It could have been an accident, easily an accident.”

  “No, it was I.” You couldn’t fault his grammar, but was the statement true – or false? She asked the question she hadn’t asked the others, because she didn’t believe they did it. Was she beginning to think he had?

  “Why haven’t you told Jamieson?”

  “The time has not yet arrived. We three must agree.”

  “Three? Rose and Jamie?”

  He inclined his head.

  “Agree on what? Who did it?”

  “I told you I did it.”

  “Then tell me how you did it. What did you do?”

  “It’s in the cards,” he said, and began to lay them out. They were all, as he knew they would be, cards of the Major Arcana, starting with the Hanged Man. The Hanged Man, streaked and buckled up by the snow. It was Jamieson’s evidence, but somehow the card had slipped away from her, back into Oliver’s possession. She couldn’t have said how it had happened. She didn’t know it was gone.

  “This is the nature of the question,” he said as he laid it down.

  “This covers him.” It was one of his own cards. The Magician. “This crosses it.” Obstacles in the way. The card of Justice. And on through the reading.

  “I don’t see that this proves anything.”

  “Perhaps not.” Oliver gathered up the cards. “But to me they do. You’ll have to trust me. I did it.”

  “I trust you, but I don’t believe you did it. I believe you’re protecting Rose and Jamie, just like they’re protecting each other.”

  Oliver inclined his head. He had said what he wanted to say, showed her what he wanted to show her. He could do no more.

  Hy left, more puzzled than ever. If Rose didn’t do it, Jamie didn’t do it, and Oliver didn’t do it, then who had? Buddy? Buddy who’d disappeared, casting suspicion his way?


  Possible, but likely?

  Wasn’t it more likely that it was an accident?

  She had a gut feeling just like Jamieson that it was not. Even so, she wanted Jamieson to think so, and to let this whole thing drop. How was she going to do that?

  Hy was pacing the floor in front of Ian’s woodstove.

  “Rose said she did it.”

  Ian handed her a glass of Pinot Noir, and sat down on the couch. It creaked.

  “Jamie said he did it. And Oliver. He said he did it.”

  Ian leaned back on the couch and stuck his feet out, just grazing Hy. He hoped she wouldn’t pull away as she usually did.

  “Jane said that Jared was there.”

  Hy pulled away.

  “When?”

  “Well – uh – ” He sat up.

  “When she questioned you?”

  “No – ”

  “Well when?”

  “She borrowed – ”

  “A cup of sugar.” Hy’s lips settled somewhere between a smirk and a sneer.

  “No, a thumb drive. She needed one for backup.”

  “And so how’d it go? Thanks, Ian, for the thumb drive – and by the way Jared was down in the gully. When did she become Jane?”

  Ian’s face had gone bright red. He liked Jamieson, but not as he liked Hy. Hy seemed to be jealous. Did that mean she felt something more for him than friendship? He’d never dared to find out.

  “We had a talk. I don’t know. It was a slip.” It was – if it made Hy back off, just when he thought she was warming up.

  “On her part, or yours?” Jamieson doesn’t make slips.

  “What? Her mentioning Jared? Or me calling her Jane?” He was hot. Sweating. Why?

  “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.” She shrugged and took a sip of wine. But it did matter.

  “I don’t think it’s Jared, anyway. I think it’s one of those three. I think murder has come to Wild Rose Cottage again.”

  “Are you saying murder is the Sullivan legacy?”

  “No. Still, these patterns sometimes play out in families.”

  “But this is nothing like those others. It could easily have been an accident.”

  “One that leaves a widowed Rose again in possession of the house. For the third time in as many centuries.”

  “Ian, you’re sounding like some kind of psychic.” Hy laughed. It was so unlike him.